The city had that brand-new smell it only wore at dawn—wet concrete, bakery steam, the paper-thin hush before traffic woke up. The station clock read 7:18, and Suki had been vibrating in place since 7:05.
"Roll call!" he announced on the plaza tiles, one sneaker on top of his suitcase like a pirate claiming treasure. "Suki: present. Beauty: overwhelming. Charisma: fatal. Next!"
Ryuzí rolled his eyes and tugged Suki's suitcase off the curb before it toppled. "You're going to concuss yourself before we even board."
"I would do it glamorously," Suki said, already waving at the others weaving through early commuters.
Aoi arrived first, neat but casual in a slate blue windbreaker, a backpack clipped perfectly to fit. "Tickets," she said, lifting a small envelope like a baton. "Printed and digital. Backup battery packs charged. Emergency contact list—"
Kenji zipped in behind her with a duffel and a grin. "Snacks. Six varieties. I also brought the card game where we roast each other lovingly."
"Not allowed," Aoi said without looking.
"Allowed emotionally," Kenji tried.
Miyako, in a cream sweater and cap, caught up and smiled. "He means he wants to lose nobly."
"I mean I want to impress you with my critical thinking under pressure," Kenji said, then flushed when he heard himself. "Uh, that was… words."
She laughed—soft and bell-clear. "It worked."
Haruto came last, exactly on time, shoulders relaxed like someone who had practiced how to breathe again. His sketch satchel hugged his side; a second, smaller notebook peeked from his jacket pocket. "Morning," he said, and the word didn't wobble.
Aoi's face eased. "Morning," she returned, voice unconsciously gentler for him.
Suki clapped loudly. "Okay! Group pact: if anyone dares to be sad today, they owe the group three convenience-store puddings."
Ryuzí deadpanned, "So… you owe us thirteen by lunch."
"Rude—but fair," Suki conceded. "All aboard the joy train!"
They funneled through the gates in a flurry of beeps and wheels, the platform a watercolor of suitcases and steam. Their car was quiet: rows of window seats, the landscape beyond just beginning to blush with sun.
"Window for Haruto," Aoi said, like it was obvious.
"I don't—" he began.
"You're going to draw," she said, already tucking his bag overhead. "Window."
He didn't argue. "Window," he agreed, almost smiling.
Suki and Ryuzí slid into the twin seats behind them. Miyako and Kenji took the next pair back; Kenji immediately lowered his tray table to arrange snacks with ceremonial care.
"Breakfast parade," he intoned. "Curry chips, chocolate buns, melon sodas, mystery gummies shaped like octopi."
Miyako eyed the octopi. "Is it… grape?"
"Hope is a flavor," Kenji said, opening it.
The train shuddered forward. City blocks unspooled like frames in a film. Suki pressed his forehead to the glass. "Look! Tiny rooftop gardens! And that dog! And—oh my god—that auntie in a tracksuit sprinting like she owes the wind money."
Ryuzí watched the reflection of Suki's grin more than the scenery. "Breathe," he said softly, just because he liked hearing the answer.
"I am," Suki replied—then, quieter, "—better than I have in weeks."
Across the aisle, Aoi pretended to check the itinerary again, then gave up and looked at Haruto instead. He'd already started sketching: thumbnail rectangles, the way the morning light scattered off warehouses, the smudge of a distant river.
"You're drawing fast," she said.
"I don't want to miss the in-between," he answered without lifting his pencil. "The in-between is where people get quiet."
Aoi's mouth twitched. "You're different when you're not pretending not to be brave."
He paused, then turned the page and began again. "I'm… trying to be the version of myself you already decided I am."
Her breath stumbled, just a little. "Good," she said, and the word felt like a hand placed on his back—steady, there.
"Okay," Kenji announced at a whisper-shout so as not to upset the business commuters. "Team: we need a train game. Loser buys onigiri at the transfer stop."
Miyako leaned in. "What are the rules?"
Kenji beamed. "We take turns saying something we're looking forward to. If you repeat someone else's answer, you lose."
"Easy," Suki said. "Me first: matching pajamas and a chaotic pillow fight."
Ryuzí: "No pillow fights near windows."
"Unromantic, but noted. Your turn."
Ryuzí thought a second. "Silence on the lake at dawn."
Miyako: "Cooking dinner together in a too-small kitchen."
Aoi: "Locking all fireworks in a metaphorical safe."
Kenji put a hand over his heart. "Savage."
Haruto, still sketching: "The sound the dock makes when water taps it."
They all went quiet for a heartbeat, like he'd named a spell.
Kenji nudged Miyako's elbow, stage-whispered, "He's cool."
"I noticed," she whispered back.
Two hours slipped like paper boats: card games (Aoi surprisingly ruthless), Suki insisting everyone rate Kenji's snack curation ("eight for ambition, six for mystery octopi"), Haruto filling page after page—reflections in glass, slices of faces when they forgot they had them. Somewhere in the middle, Suki fell asleep with his shoulder against Ryuzí's and his hand just barely fisted in Ryuzí's sleeve, as if asking without words, Don't go far.
Ryuzí didn't.
At the transfer station, air puffed in cool and pine-clean. They switched to a small local line that felt like a storybook—wooden seats, two cars, the conductor greeting riders by town name. Fields replaced rooftops, then forest shouldered up to the track. The sky widened, then widened again.
"There," Aoi said as the train rounded a bend—voice almost reverent. "That's our lake."
It appeared the way real things do when you've been dreaming them too sharply: suddenly, simply, more blue than your imagination allowed. A ring of dark trees cupped it like careful hands. A scatter of docks. A single white house half-hidden by cedars on the slope above the shore.
Kenji pressed his face to the window. "We're in a postcard."
Suki woke with a soft noise and blinked at the world. "We time-travelled to peace."
"Shh," Ryuzí said, but he was smiling.
They disembarked at a station so small it had a single bench and a vending machine that sold only green tea and corn soup. Aoi checked her notes. "We walk from here," she said. "Fifteen minutes."
The road to the lake was a narrow thread through trees, light falling in coins. Kenji insisted on carrying two bags "to impress fate." Miyako took one anyway; he let her, then walked a half step behind like a volunteer bodyguard.
"Do we have bears?" Suki asked brightly.
Aoi: "No."
Kenji: "Do we get points if we see one?"
Aoi: "You get evacuation."
Haruto stopped once, twice, to tilt his head and just listen. There were sounds city ears forget: wingbeats, water against stone, the stitched-together hush of leaves talking to each other. He breathed in. It reached places in him he hadn't realized were wrung dry.
"Okay?" Aoi asked quietly at his side.
"Yes," he said, and wasn't lying.
They crested the last small hill. The path spilled into a clearing, and there it was: Aoi's lake house. Two stories of white wood and charcoal trim, a wraparound porch facing the water, a balcony on the second floor, windows you could see the whole sky through. Ivy had started to flirt with the railings; a wind chime made a sound like cool coins.
Suki, sincerely awed: "Aoi. Are you secretly nobility."
"It's my grandmother's," Aoi said, a little pink. "We used to come in summers. It's… simpler than it looks."
Kenji bounded up the porch steps and, remembering his manners at the last possible second, turned to the group. "Do we… knock?"
Aoi took the key from her pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open to the faint smell of cedar and lemon oil. "Welcome," she said, and the word didn't try to be anything but what it was.
They stepped into cool shade, into wood floors that glowed honey-light, into a living room layered in quilts and low shelves of board games and old travel books. Straight ahead, glass doors looked out on the lake; light moved across the floor like water.
Kenji spread his arms. "Base camp! Dibs on not the couch."
"Room assignments," Aoi said, already consulting a neatly folded paper. "Miyako and I will take the twin room upstairs. Kenji, you get the loft. It's small but has a skylight."
Kenji saluted, as if granted a medal. "Skylight man. That's me."
"A spare room is set with two futons," Aoi continued. "Suki and Ryuzí—"
"Together," Suki said immediately.
Aoi didn't blink. "Yes."
Ryuzí's ears colored just enough to be real. "Thanks."
Haruto braced himself for some permutation of alone, but Aoi turned the page. "And you—Haruto—" She opened the sliding door by the kitchen. "—there's a little studio off the porch. It's where my grandmother painted. It's yours while we're here, if you want it."
Haruto stood very still. The studio had north-facing windows and a long table and a door that opened directly to the sound of the dock tapping the shore. He didn't touch anything—just looked, and then looked at her.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "I don't… want to take a room someone else—"
"It's been empty a long time," Aoi said. "It will like having light in it."
He nodded once, the kind of nod that fixes something in place inside a person. "Thank you."
"Okay!" Suki clapped once. "Tour!"
He was a golden retriever in human form as he bounced them through the kitchen (blue cabinets, mugs that didn't match on purpose), the pantry (Aoi's emergency rice supply could feed a village), the bathroom (deep soaking tub caused Kenji to gasp like he'd seen a meteor), the back deck ("stargazing platform," Suki proclaimed), and finally the dock, which creaked like a greeting when they stepped onto it.
"Rule one," Aoi said as cedar shade fell around them. "No swimming alone."
"Rule two," Ryuzí added, "no running on the dock."
"Rule three," Miyako smiled, "sunscreen or consequences."
Kenji pretended to write on an invisible clipboard. "Rule four: group photo on the dock immediately."
They squeezed together, lake winking behind them. Suki flung an arm around Ryuzí's shoulders as if it were gravity. Haruto lifted his chin at the last moment and didn't move away when Aoi's fingers slipped, light as breath, into the crook of his elbow. The timer blinked. The camera caught something you couldn't stage: six people suspended between laughter and relief.
They spent the first hour like settlers dividing a gentle frontier. Bags exploded then organized themselves. Suki claimed the kitchen speaker and paired it to his phone; soft, summery songs poured like lemonade into the rooms. Miyako found aprons and declared herself sous-chef; Aoi accepted command with the iron will of a general disguised as a friend. Kenji volunteered to "be muscle" and was set upon the ice chest and the charcoal, delighted by both. Ryuzí discovered an old toolbox and fixed a wobbly porch chair without being asked, because he was built that way.
Haruto, alone for a few minutes in the studio, slid open the side door. The lake gleamed like a secret you could say out loud. He set his sketchbook on the long table, placed a pencil next to it, then stood there and let the idea of peace touch his ribs. It didn't make him wince. It finally didn't.
A soft knock. He turned. Aoi leaned on the doorframe, not crossing in.
"I thought you might need these," she said, holding out two soft charcoal sticks and a kneaded eraser from a tin she'd scavenged from a drawer. "My grandmother loved mess."
Haruto took them carefully, like accepting a gift you weren't sure you were allowed to want. "Thank you," he said again, the words getting braver, steadier.
"You're welcome." She glanced at the table, at the light on the floorboards. "We'll be on the deck. Come when you want. Or don't, if you're working. Both are okay."
He nodded. "Aoi?"
She paused. "Yes?"
"I'm… glad you brought us here."
Her mouth shaped the smallest smile. "Me too," she said, and left him to the lake.
By late afternoon, the house smelled like garlic and soy and the kind of happy that lives at stovetop height. Suki stood at the counter in an apron that said KISS THE COOK (consensually!) and waged war on a bell pepper while Ryuzí sliced meat with a calm that reassured the knives. Kenji tried to sneak a bite of marinated chicken and was swatted simultaneously by Aoi and Miyako, who high-fived over his head like seasoned bodyguards.
"Your villain origin story," Kenji informed them, rubbing his hand.
"Your stomach will thank us," Miyako said, dabbing sauce on his nose with a laugh.
"Is this flirting?" he asked the room at large, already blushing.
Suki pointed a spatula at him. "It is now."
Evening slid in on cat feet. They ate on the deck—bowls and chopsticks, a line of condiments, the lake stretching dark and quiet. Someone had strung fairy lights along the railing years ago; Aoi found the switch and the whole porch breathed gold.
"To us," Suki said, lifting his soda can like a toast.
"To 84%," Kenji added.
"To safety," Aoi said.
"To sunlight," Haruto murmured, and Suki squeezed Ryuzí's knee under the table because the word meant more now than it did when he'd chosen it.
They lingered until the stars came down to hover over the water. Laughter softened; conversation went to embers. Kenji yawned huge and declared, "I call the skylight," then trooped inside with Miyako, who carried the leftover rice like a priestess of late-night snacks.
Haruto packed his sketchbook away last, reluctant to fold the night. "I'll be up early," he told Aoi as they stacked bowls.
"I will too," she said. "We can be quiet together."
He looked at her, surprised that a sentence could be exactly right. "Okay."
On the dock, Suki leaned his head against Ryuzí's shoulder and watched the stars try themselves on the lake. "Is this real?" he asked, not joking.
"Feels like it," Ryuzí said.
"I want to—" Suki began, then stopped, not because he didn't know, but because he wanted it to be perfect. "I want to remember this exact sound."
"The water?" Ryuzí asked.
"You breathing," Suki said, careless and honest as a wish.
Silence answered, but the kind that says I heard you.
"Come on," Ryuzí said finally, thumb brushing Suki's wrist. "We should sleep. You have an aggressive relationship with mornings when there are canoes."
"I do," Suki admitted. "Race you to the room?"
"You trip over nothing."
"That's slander."
They left the dock to the dark and the gentle tapping and the moon.
Inside, the house had already learned their footsteps. Upstairs, Kenji's skylight glowed faintly; beyond it, stars arranged themselves, patient as old friends. Aoi checked the locks, checked the stove, set her phone on the counter with the list for tomorrow half-finished but somehow complete.
At the studio door, Haruto paused, looked out at the water one more time, and found himself thinking, Maybe this is what starting over can look like. Not a big declaration—just a quiet room with a door you can open.
He clicked the light off and went to bed.
In the spare room, Suki and Ryuzí set their bags down by twin futons pushed together without anybody saying anything about it. The window let in lake-cool air and the faintest sound of night insects tuning their string section.
Suki turned, hands tucked into the sleeves of his sweater. "Hey."
"Hey," Ryuzí said, matching soft for soft.
They stood like that, smiling the smallest smiles, the room finally catching up to how long they'd been waiting to feel exactly this kind of tired—safe, full, used up by happiness in a way that promised more tomorrow.
"Good night, sunshine," Ryuzí said.
"Good night," Suki answered, then added, because he could here, "Stay."
"I'm not going anywhere," Ryuzí said, and meant the next four days, and many after.
The lake turned one shade darker and then lighter again. The house listened, and kept their secrets, and kept their sleep.
Tomorrow there would be canoes, and a market in the next town, and Haruto's first lake-morning sketch, and Kenji trying to barbecue and Miyako taking the tongs from him, and Aoi's quiet shoulders lowering when she remembered she didn't have to be in charge to be loved.
But for now—just the soft thrum of night, and a door Aoi left unlatched to the porch so the house could breathe, and six bags by the door like promises.
They had left the city. They had arrived somewhere better than a postcard.
They had arrived at each other.